Epiphany
by Reika
Summary: Fourth and final part of the With My Last Breath series. After the final battle, Harry finally gets to be with Draco again. You don't have to have read the other three, but it helps.


Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. 

A/N: OKAY. This is the *last* piece in this story. Sorry it took so long to get posted, my husband has been gone for 8 months (in Iraq) and he came home for 2 weeks leave…things got kind of jumbled from there. It took a while for inspiration to come for this, and when it did it came *hard*. So this is what you get. It's not as happy as I originally wanted it to be, but this whole story isn't a really happy one. It is happier than the others though, I think.

Please read and review, so I can know if anyone actually reads this stuff.

This is Ron's POV btw.

Epiphany

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"Death is for many of us the gate of hell; but we are inside on the way out, not outside on the way in."

- George Bernard Shaw

I have had few true epiphanies in my life. Save for my early realization regarding where babies come from, they have all been the result of my relationship with Harry James Potter. Although not brilliant in the way that Hermione is, Harry had…something else. It was as though his eyes, or the manner in which he spoke to you, could teach you a million things about the world that, as simple as they were, had evaded you before.

There are many legends about Harry Potter – most are absurd. Their inspiration, however, can be traced to reality. Many people believe that he wasn't human…but what they fail to realize that it was precisely his humanity that made him special. Wizard…seeker…hero…Harry Potter was a *man* - no more no less. At least…that's what he would want you to believe. 

As undeniably mortal as Harry was, he was…different. Whatever depth we have in our souls for emotion, Harry had ten times over. It was as though his emotions were so strong that merely witnessing them felt as though they would shatter you. I can only imagine what it must have been like to harbor them inside, as he did. I could see it sometimes…the war going on inside him. His sense of duty – the hero in him – would war with all the anger, the spite – the harsh reality that his life was simply not fair. It made him look feral…almost…in those moments. There really is no way of knowing how many years he kept it all there, just on the edge threatening to spill over – the darkness kept at bay by Godric Gryffindor's sword of truth and justice. 

All humans, myself included, have that problem…I suppose. The internal battle where a few crucial decisions in our lives have shaped the men we have become. Harry wouldn't have been Harry if his had not been a severe case, of course. 

Voldemort is dead.

His death was messy, judging by the blood soaking through Harry's robes when he was finished with him. It was all over him, matting his hair and dried underneath his fingernails. He looked strangely serene then – a canvas of carnage masquerading as righteousness. He arrived at the clearing where Hermione and I had been waiting for what felt like days carrying two sacks – the one he left with and a new one, stained red and dripping blood all over his shoes. He tossed the second at me; I knew what it was and had no desire to confirm my suspicions. 

A monstrous silence fell over the three of us. It was heavy and laden with such bittersweet tragedy that it made breathing a labor almost too difficult to attempt. Hermione and I were supposed to have already decided which of us would kill him, but both of us had managed to avoid the subject completely, hoping that maybe he would change his mind. He hadn't…of course. 

That moment I volunteered. I didn't have to be asked, and my decision was rather unceremonious. I simply couldn't bear to have it weigh on Hermione for the rest of her life. I understood his reasons better than she, and therefore thought I would be better equipped for the task of living with myself. 

In spite of my decision, Hermione couldn't let him go without trying one last time. 

"Please, Harry…I don't want to do this without you. You worked too hard not to see the world you've saved."

Harry didn't reply; he embraced her – had it been anyone else I would have been jealous of the intimacy in that moment. When they parted Hermione was crying and as much as I wanted to wipe her tears away I couldn't seem to will my legs to move. She spoke again, her voice more shaken than before. 

"I miss them too, Harry. I don't want to miss you."

I have never been a Christian, and I'm not sure I believe in any god. I have, however, seen many paintings of Christ – benevolent and almost celestial. That moment, I think, was the closest I have ever come to god. Harry put his hand against my cheek, his other did the same with Hermione, and the energy rolling off of him crashed against me in waves. It left me dizzy, as though I had been privy to a secret of the universe far too complex for my exiguous human form. It was eroding me – too powerful for my body to take…and I didn't care.

When he spoke, his voice was calm and surer than I had ever heard it. "You don't have to miss them, Mione…they're here. Can't you feel them? When Dumbledore died…couldn't you feel the air? Didn't it…change you?"

His eyes drifted upwards and around us, as though he could *see* the old man, reduced to tiny particles of energy, drifting all around us. 

I knew what Hermione was thinking, but did not voice it…I hoped that she would do the same. My hope was short lived. 

"Harry…if you can feel him, then why? Why leave us?"

He gave her a poignant smile – the first to reach his eyes in a long time – and shifted his eyes to the grave beside him. "Because it's not enough."

Simple…but excruciatingly clear. Harry usually was. 

He stepped back then, and whispered a prayer – to whom I cannot begin to imagine – in Latin. His green eyes half-lidded, he smiled at us. It was a sweet smile, filled with all the innocence of youth but laced with the injustice of angels – their beauty debased with one wing dipped in blood. It was a smile that told us both that everything would be okay…and we wanted to believe him.

It was my job to do, and so I raised my wand. Hermione, willful to a fault, watched on through restrained tears. Her face was resolute and stern – only I, having known her most open of moments, could see the cracks in her performance. Despite my every intention to fulfill Harry's last wish…the words wouldn't come to me. It was as though my heart blatantly refused my brain's orders and took over my body, leaving me standing rigid, wand at the ready. The silence grew from awkward to unmanageable and I thought Harry might get angry, might open his eyes and force my hand. 

He didn't.

Perhaps his spirit had already left his body then, or perhaps his mind was too far away to come back again. For whatever reason, he was not unnerved by my hesitation. He remained stoic and tranquil…waiting. At some point I noticed my own tears flowing down my cheeks, but I did not wipe them away. My arm was still extended; my wand pointed at Harry's chest in spite of my shaking. 

I resolved to make one more attempt at the words. With my cheeks flushed and burning with tears that might have been blood, I screwed my eyes shut and opened my mouth. I heard the words as if they had been from a distant place…from someone else's lips.

When I opened my eyes Harry had fallen. His mouth bore the most peaceful smile, and I stood, transfixed, looking at it. I found my own lips curling to mirror him – I can only hope I find that peace one day. 

I was snapped out of my morbid reverie by a voice – the same voice that had spoken the words I was certain were my own. They were not directed to me, but to the earth underneath Harry. 

"Are you satisfied? You have your precious Potter…I've kept my word."

As reality made itself known to me, my vision cleared up and the face in front of me was worn but still familiar. Pansy stood across from us, her wand raised and pointed at the empty space where Harry had been standing. Parkinson had always been rather plain looking, but her steel gaze and unbreakable resolve made her seem so much more distinguished. I did not ask her why she was there, and had to stop myself from thanking her. I think that somewhere beneath the resentment she knew what she was doing was a good thing, and I am in her debt for it. 

She kept the niceties to a minimum, barely making eye contact with either Hermione or myself. She called a young woman over to her, and took a young boy from her arms. The child was no doubt a Malfoy, the spitting image of his father. I saw her eyes soften a bit while she spoke to him, smoothing his hair and kissing his cheek before thrusting him into my arms. 

Roughly three years old, the child immediately screamed for his mother, kicking me in attempts to get away. Before I could ask Pansy what the meaning of it was, she must've read my mind. 

"His name is William. The Ministry is coming for me; you know that as well as I do. You may not be familiar with the Ministry's handling of children, but I *am*. I will kill him before I let them take him. His Father is dead…please…"

I didn't have the chance to answer before Hermione came and took the child from me. She didn't say a word, but simply nodded at Pansy and walked away. I presumed she was headed back to the safe house. Parkinson sent the other girl away and sighed deeply, looking down at where Harry and Malfoy lay – one above the earth and one beneath it. 

"You had better go. I'm sure your group will be anxious to hear of Potter, and if you take too long they'll come looking. I can't imagine this would look good to them."

"I have to – " 

"Remove the headstone? I'll do it. I buried him here, didn't I? Now go."

I nodded and prepared to leave, but what happened next I wouldn't have believed if I hadn't seen it myself. And even now I have doubts. 

It sounded as though the earth itself _groaned_. I looked down to Harry and two pale arms – seemingly untouched by the dirt or decay of death – came up to wrap around him. I looked to the left forearm and the mark staring back at me seemed to melt away into nothingness…as though it had never been there in the first place. 

The arms embraced Harry so tightly that light itself would not have fit between them. They slowly pulled him down and in my shock I resisted the urge to drag him back out, not having said my proper goodbyes. When at last the earth had swallowed them whole, I looked to Pansy who scowled, though I could see the glimmer in her eyes where tears threatened to spill. 

"Was that – "

"Draco always was an impatient bastard." She interrupted. 

After that I left, trusting Parkinson to remove the headstone before fleeing herself. As disgusting as it was, I made sure to sweep up the bag Harry had tossed at me. I was at the gates to our safe house when Hermione's huddled form caught my eye. She quickly let me know that she was fine and motioned for me to be quiet, as William was finally sleeping. She explained that she couldn't go in and explain alone, which I understood. 

When we entered, what seemed like a million different faces all turned to us, expectant at first and then confused. I sent Hermione upstairs with William and let the silence soothe me for a moment. My mind raced through a plethora of things – childhood, friends, love, death, quidditch, life. For all my magical toys, it occurred to me then that my world is just as mediocre as everyone else's. In that moment I longed for the worlds in Hermione's books – wizards, heroes, castles and dragons without all the messy humanity. 

Ginny's voice cut through – shattering my moment of Zen. 

"Ron…where's Harry?"

I couldn't answer her…perhaps I didn't want to. I merely shook my head and let my gaze drop to the floor. The collective wail throughout the room sent me to the floor, gasping. It was almost like the grief rolling off of them all coated me so thickly I thought I might drown. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ginny barging through the doors and into the room she shared with him. Running after her, I arrived in time to see her throw herself to the bed, gripping the sheets as though recognizing his smell would bring him back. 

Foolish girl…he had never been there to begin with.

I tried to talk to her, to soothe her. I tried to tell her how his sacrifice was great and for all of us. In her misery she lost her temper, flinging bedclothes around the room. 

"I spoke to him Ron. He *knew*…he knew he wasn't coming back and YOU LET HIM."

She repeated the last part several times…and I let her. I didn't flinch when she beat against my chest with her small fists, screaming in my ear. It wasn't until her next comment that I took action.

With her hand upon her belly she wiped at her eyes furiously. "How could he? How could he do this to me? How could he do this to us?"

I hadn't meant to be so harsh with my only sister. My only *pregnant* sister. However, I felt my eyes narrow and I pushed her back, away from me. 

"That's *enough*, you stupid, selfish girl."

She looked wounded, as I would have, had the same thing been said to me.

"Don't open your mouth. *I* know that child isn't Harry's. *You* know that child isn't Harry's. And he knew it too. No one else needs to know, but if you're going to be sorry for yourself, do it properly. I don't understand Ginny…how can you miss someone so much, when you never even knew them?"

I felt for Ginny…I still do. I, however, lost a brother, a friend…a teacher. I don't think anyone could even begin to understand. I'm not sure which was more painful – losing Harry to death – or losing him to life. 

The world mourned Harry Potter as it mourned no other. 

Many monuments are to be erected in his name during the rebuilding. Occasionally there will be a rumor floating about, since no body was ever found. Sometimes people will swear they see Harry Potter drinking tea at a café in Paris, or on board a Yacht in the Caribbean. I smile when I hear them, and respond with "maybe".

For those less willing to indulge in fantasy, a memorial was built so that everyone could pay their respects. Many people have asked me where he is buried so that they may do so properly, and I tell them the truth. 

"I don't know."

It's been two months already…and I can't feel him. 

Its days like this – when the sky is grey and the grass is green – that I remember the boy with the lightning shaped scar. Not the man who saved us…but the boy. I remember the boy with a glare so hateful it could make you believe every horrid thing he said about you. For all their differences…they were just boys…and life is cruel.

Lost in thought I let my eyes drift closed. William is curled up in my lap, his blonde hair falling in ringlets around his angelic face. As my fingers run through the curls, so soft they might be spun from clouds…it happens. 

The air takes on a kind of charge, making the hair on my arms stand up. A breeze caresses my face so softly it feels like fingertips and the wind smells like vanilla. I feel myself smile and when my eyes finally open my world looks…different. The change isn't drastic; but it's as though I am seeing the sky or the sand for the first time, and it fills me up so that I feel like I will burst. 

I feel them and it's so beautiful I might die. 

Hugging the boy to my chest, so that I might pass some feeling into him, I realize that I've had another epiphany.

My world *is* one of heroes and dragons.

END

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And that's the *end*. Thanks to Kitten, for getting me to write these past the original one shot. And thanks, as always, to Jasmine. 

BTW, since it's not really clear, yes, Pansy killed Harry. 

Please read and review.

Love and Kisses, 

Reika


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